


nothing is happening everywhere

by theviolonist



Category: Doctor Who, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Doctor Who AU, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hi," the man who just emerged from the box says, grinning. "I'm the Doctor. But you can call me Nick."</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing is happening everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I've succumbed to the Harry/Nick craze, huh? This is for [junkshop-disco](http://junkshop-disco.livejournal.com) for the October Exchange. Hope you like it, dear!  
> Thanks to [verbyna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/verbyna) for the beta, the title, mocking me relentlessly and being her usual awesome self.

The concert is tomorrow morning, and Harry can't sleep.

It's not that he's nervous, but he's going to perform at Madison Square Garden tomorrow and he isn't even nineteen and a year ago this time he was getting pissed on cheap vodka with his friends and trying to guess what they'd be getting for Christmas.

Okay, so maybe he's a little nervous.

The point is, he can't sleep, and the boys are all sound asleep in their respective beds. Harry kind of wants to wake Louis up, but tomorrow is going to be one of their busiest days ever and he doesn't want it to be ruined because fatigue makes Louis bitchy. He tosses and turns on the bed, snuggling up against him and trying to find a position that feels right, until it becomes clear that it’s not meant to happen.

He tries to make the least noise possible when he slips out of bed and into his clothes. The device lets out a loud beep when Harry slides the keycard in the door, but Louis doesn't even stir. Harry breathes out.

If there's something he loves about New York (amongst others, because it's one of the most stunning places he's ever been to – sometimes he can't even believe he's there), it's the way the city never shuts down. It's three AM and the city is still buzzing, the taxis coughing their smoke and flashing their headlights as they zoom down the avenues, little spots of yellow against the asphalt.

Harry gets a pizza for 99 cents at the corner of 45th and Lexington and munches on it as he tries to absorb as much as he can from the city. The December chill makes him shiver a little, but not enough to make him walk back to the hotel. He stands over an air vent and listens to the tube roar beneath the street.

He probably walks for a good twenty minutes before he starts to get tired and decides to go back to the hotel. He carefully avoids Times Square and its garish, extravagant misery. It's tolerable enough in the daylight, when the pretense actually holds up, but there are few things sadder than the half-dead square where the men and women in threadbare Mickey costumes hold open tired arms to attract tourists.

He chooses Broadway instead, but he gets tired of that too, the lights and the shouts and the music streaming from the open doors. So he takes the sinuous alleyways, where it's dark and quiet and the city feels like it's waiting for the dawn to unfold its peach-coloured light over the buildings. He's confident he won't get lost – he's got the best sense of orientation out of the five of them.

Of course, that's when he gets lost.

*

It's no big deal, really. He's an international popstar, he has his mobile, and his watch, and money, and he can't be that far from the hotel.

He's also really, really tired.

It's like all the sleep he couldn't get earlier has finally come and is weighing down on his shoulders, pushing down on his bones, leaden and warm. His knees are threatening to give out. He notices a park a few paces away, quiet and green, with the soft gurgle of a fountain. Going there and sitting on a bench is clearly the logical, sensible thing to do.

Falling asleep on said bench probably isn't, though.

He's awoken by a whirring noise, as though a very big, mechanic thing was breathing. But that's not possible, because big, mechanic things don't breathe. It's probably the automatic sprinkler system. Harry braces himself for the sensation of the cold water on his skin.

Nothing comes.

He cracks an eye open, risking a look. He should probably be creeped out by the whole thing, since it's getting spookier by the minute, but as it is he's mostly very tired and eager to resume his nap, be it in his bed or on the bench. Actually, it seems like he's already sleeping. Dreaming, too. And he should probably stop drinking Red Bull, because this dream is pretty fucking bizarre.

It's definitely a dream. _Definitely_ definitely, because for one, who has ever heard heard of a British police box in an American park? And for two, even if some freak decided that near the fountain was the appropriate place for a police box, there's no way it would just appear from nowhere. Much less open.

"Hi," the man who just emerged from the box says, grinning. "I'm the Doctor. But you can call me Nick."

*

Red Bull is going to have a fucking lawsuit on their hands when he wakes up tomorrow morning, because this situation has just gone from spooky to actual fucking odd.

Dream-person (Harry refuses to call him the Doctor, even in his head, because seriously? Pretentious much?) cocks his head, wrinkling his nose as though to say, _this one's a bit simple_ , and if his _dreams_ start judging him, Harry is going to have to consider getting a therapist.

He clears his throat. "Hi."

The man – Nick – doesn't pay him any attention, too busy sniffing the air around them like an absolute maniac. "Mm, from the time residue, I would say... Earth, twenty-first century?" He jumps, peering in the distance. "Oh, the Empire State Building!" he says excitedly. "New York, then. Unless we're in New new new new new new new new new new new new new York. Please tell me we're not in New new new new new new new new new new new new new York."

"Um," Harry says. He's not proud of it, but he might be staring. This is easily the weirdest dream he's ever had, including the one with the ostriches dressed in Santa Claus outfits.

"What year? 2090? No, no spaceships. Do you still have towers? Big, kind of similar?"

"We're in 2012," Harry says, mostly to make all the jumping and questioning stop. It's giving him a headache.

Nick frowns. "How dull," he says. "Well, I'll be off then, wouldn't want to run into old acquaintances, would we?"

"Right," Harry nods. He's not even sure why he's agreeing. Mostly he's hoping he'll wake up.

The Doctor – no, no calling him the Doctor, Nick – already has his hand on the wooden blue door when he turns around. "Wait," he says, narrowing his eyes. "You're not American."

"No," Harry says. That he's relatively sure of.

"What are you doing here?"

"I have a concert tomorrow morning. Madison Square Garden," he adds, because he still can't wrap his head around it completely.

The Doctor's – _Nick's_ – eyes sparkle in the obscurity. "Oh, big shot, are we? What're you doing roaming the streets at this hour, then?"

Harry shrugs. "Couldn't sleep."

Nick hums. "What's your name, then?"

"Harry Styles," Harry says, surprising himself.

"Well then, Harry Styles. Very nice to have made your acquaintance. And break a leg for tomorrow!"

"Wait!" Harry exclaims belatedly, but the box is already starting to whir and – _fuck_ , and disappear. Honest-to-God disappear. Red Bull really do have an impressive array of drugs at their disposal.

Harry's ready to curl back on the bench and try to fall back asleep when the whirring starts up again. The box starts to appear from – well, Harry can't really deny it, from absolutely fucking nowhere. A quiffed head peeks through the door.

The Doctor grins. "Fancy a trip?"

*

Turns out it wasn't a dream; the Doctor is an alien and the box is called the TARDIS. The Doctor also has two hearts and the box apparently travels through time and space. It's a lot to take in in one night, but never let it be said that Harry isn't an agreeable person.

"So, let me sum this up. You're... 900 years old?" Harry asks as he looks around (it's _bigger on the inside_ , which Harry still hasn't wrapped his head around. He tried to comment on it, but the Doctor interrupted him before he could say anything. "I know, it's bigger on the inside," he smirked). It's not even the weirdest thing, but you've got to start somewhere.

"Closer to a thousand now," the Doctor laments, touching a couple of levers. They make an alarming noise. "Hold on to something!" he yells, and it's only thanks to his reflexes that Harry isn’t thrown to the floor when the TARDIS takes a very narrow turn. "Sorry," the Doctor says. "Jakar galaxy, always a bit difficult to travel."

"But how come you look like that?" Harry asks.

"Why thank you, crumpet," the Doctor preens. "The glory of regeneration."

"Of what?"

"You humans, always with your questions. I had a friend who – Never mind. Right, regeneration. Basically, when I die, I get a new body! I have to say, this one's not that bad. I quite like the quiff. And the glasses. Glasses are rad."

"You look like a twat," Harry says. He really does, and a hipster twat at that. Even worse, he actually manages to be endearing.

"How dare you, Harold! I offer to take you to see the entirety of time and space, the wonders of the galaxies, and that's how you thank me?"

"Still haven't seen any galaxies," Harry points out. "Just reckless driving."

"This one's cheeky," the Doctor whispers to the engine at the center of the room. Its answering hum sounds strangely like 'rude'.

"Now, now," the Doctor smiles, petting the controls. "Where d'you want to go, then, Harry Styles? Sixteenth century? I would suggest the Renaissance, but I'm afraid Catherine de Medicis and I aren't on the best of terms. Oh, and what about Leonard de Vinci? Good old Leo. Or we could try the future. Always entertaining, as long as you don't end up on cannibal planets. Or Dalek empires. Or prison spaceships about to blow up.” Nick frowns and blinks, focusing back on Harry. “Actually, better stay out of the future."

Harry looks at him, dazed. Here he is, in a police box that can apparently fly through time and space, with a man who is either the craziest person Harry has ever met or the most amazing, mad, overwhelming man in the world – and probably a handful of galaxies, too.

"Surprise me," he says.

*

Nick does.

He takes Harry to a planet where everything is made of candy and cannibalistic liquorice trees try to eat them alive. They go back to 1905 and have dinner with Einstein the night before he finalises his theory of relativity. They fight the Daleks, who are apparently the most resistant fuckers in the universe, because according to the Doctor he's killed their whole species a few times and it's never quite done the trick. They visit Amy and Rory, Nick's friends, in 1934; Amy makes googly eyes at Harry and asks him indiscreet questions while Rory snorts in his tea. (Apparently Nick's last companion, Alexa, met his future companion Caroline, fell in love with her and left him to ride off in the sunset. Harry teases him about it for _days_. Nick just pouts and glares at Amy.)

And through each of these adventures (most of which end with them saving the world, which is a surprisingly pleasant thing to do) Harry learns more about Nick. He learns that he's fanciful but dangerous, darker than anyone Harry's ever met ("You don't live as long as I have without a few sequels, doll," he always says when Harry asks him about it); that he doesn't trust anyone but himself, because too many of his friends have betrayed him in the past; that he was only in love once, with a girl named Rose that he had to abandon in a parallel world; that he picks up companions because he's scared to death of being alone, and that he always ends up hurting them, even if he doesn't want to. Harry can't bring himself to be afraid.

One morning, when they're having breakfast on a world where everything is made of a sort of plastic marble, white and gleaming and smooth, Nick tells him:

"We're going back."

"What?" Harry asks, biting into his pancake (the day he discovered the impeccably furnished kitchen in the right wing of the TARDIS was arguably an even better day than the one when they saved a whole civilisation of half-butterfly people). "Where?"

"Earth," Nick says, looking ahead.

"Oh," Harry says.

Silence falls on them suddenly, like a blanket of lead. Harry knows Nick; he gets bored easily, and that's – that's okay. Even when it's Harry he gets tired of. He kind of misses his friends, anyway. It feels like forever since he hasn't seen them. It's strange, especially after getting used to spending every minute of their time together.

"Okay, then," he says.

"Okay," Nick repeats, avoiding his eyes.

Harry doesn't finish his pancake. He isn't really hungry, all of a sudden.

*

The thing is, Nick is more than just the Doctor. He's a guy who laughs more than he talks, a guy whose primary concern when they've escaped from a burning building is to check if his quiff is still standing, a guy who wears plaid suits and talks in a stupid Northern accent so strong that sometimes Harry can hear his mum's voice calling him down for dinner through it.

Sometimes he parks the TARDIS near a dying star and stays there until it's gone, petting its pale beams until there's nothing but the darkness under his fingers. He looks out into the infinite, legs dangling in space, and when Harry asks him why he did it, he always answers, "Because no one should have to die alone."

(Harry knows that it's also because he's afraid _he_ might have to die alone, at the end of the universe, when he'll have outlived all his friends, all his lovers, all his enemies; knows that he does that so maybe, _maybe_ , the universe will return the favour and won't let him be alone when he exhales his dying breath. He doesn't mention it.)

And Harry can't help but want to be the person who'll make him a little less lonely, who will save him when he needs to be saved, not always, just once in a while. He doesn't want to leave his friends, of course, but he'd started to think about how he could orchestrate the whole thing, maybe spend half his time in the TARDIS with Nick and the rest touring with the boys. He'd started hoping there was something there, something he could build on. Build what, he doesn't really know. A life.

He can see it so clearly: the Doctor would have given him this key he says is only “a temporary commodity because really, he can't just open the door for him every time they're being chased by dragons", Harry would have introduced him to the lads, maybe pressured Nick into giving them a ride to wherever they wanted to go. They'd have curry on Ugrqmokngqùekgnre, maybe. They'd go to Ancient Egypt.

And one day maybe the Doctor would have looked at him and seen something there, something worth believing in. He'd have brushed Harry's cheek like he does sometimes, but instead of saying, "Thank you" or "Good job" or "Be careful", he'd have said –

Yeah, so Harry's maybe a little in love with the Doctor.

It's okay, though.

*

The ride home is silent. Harry sits near the consoles; he's already looked around the TARDIS, getting his stuff from where it's scattered around the ship, so there's really nothing else to do but wait. It's kind of excruciating, and Harry feels the stress he left behind twist his stomach again.

He lets out a laugh, but it's sad, falls flat in the silence.

"What's making you laugh?" Nick asks.

"I remember when we met," Harry says. "I thought you were a hallucination, because of the – there's this drink on Earth, Red Bull, it's made from bull testicles or something?"

Nick's eyes go comically wide. "You crazy humans," he laughs, shaking his head.

Harry laughs with him. It's a little happier, this time.

"It feels like so long ago," he says when the silence envelops them again.

Nick looks at him with something in his eyes Harry can’t decipher. "Harry Styles," he says. Harry waits for him to say something more, but it never comes.

*

They're back in the park.

“Same time, same place,” Nick says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Harry nods. He has a concert in a little less than ten hours, and it's like the whole thing, the adventures and the crying and laughing and repeatedly-almost-dying, hadn't even existed. Harry kind of wishes he'd asked the Doctor to get him back a little later, just so he could pretend – but never mind. It is what it is.

"So, Harry Styles," Nick says, leaning against the door, the TARDIS humming warmly behind him.

"Doctor," Harry says, trying to swallow back his tears. "Nick," he adds, more quietly.

A shadow crosses Nick's face, and for a second Harry thinks he's going to say something, ask him to come with him, maybe, but it's gone as fast as it came.

"One trip," Nick says. He holds out a hand. "It was nice to meet you."

"You bastard," Harry says between clenched teeth. "C’mere."

He pulls Nick close, hooking his chin in the nook of his shoulder. "I love you," he says fiercely, low, trying to contain everything that's threatening to burst out of his chest. "I'll miss you."

Nick doesn't say anything, only hugs him tighter, holding him so tightly Harry can feel both his hearts beating frantically against his chest.

"Right," Nick says when he pulls away, blinking away what may be tears but may as well be something else. "I'll see you. Maybe."

"Yeah," Harry says, and watches him close the door, watches the TARDIS disappear slowly, first the outline, blurry and light blue, then the police sign, then the rest.

Even when there's just silence and the night closing in on him, he stays there, hoping to hear the familiar whirring start up again and startle him, waiting for the Doctor to pop his head out and say, "Well then, are you coming?"

He doesn't.

*

The next morning is one of the strangest of Harry's life. It's like waking up from a convoluted dream, except he knows it's real – he can feel it in his bones and in the way his heart is quietly broken, the way it gets when people just leave. Also, he still has the scar he got when Madame Vastra had to use his blood to save them from giant radioactive spiders.

He eats breakfast in silence, looking at his cereals and trying to gather himself. Louis peers at him over the rim of his mug of tea.

"Cheer up, young Harold," he says. Harry attempts a smile. He's not sure it's successful, but he can always blame it on the stress.

Louis narrows his eyes. "You look different," he says. He peers closer. "I don't know _why_ , but you look different.”

Luckily, he's distracted by Niall dumping his glass of water down the back of his shirt. Louis yelps and gets up to chase after him. Harry can't help but smile; he _did_ miss them. The entirety of time and space might be more impressive than Madison Square Garden, but it doesn't quite compare to this friendship. At least he's sure _they'll never leave him._

The day goes by in a daze. The five of them run around, herded from one interview to another, Paul crowding close behind them. Harry may be a little more physical than usual, but fuck it, he hasn't seen the boys for four months and he needs to make up for all the hugs he missed. Even if they don't know he missed them. God, this time and space shit is confusing.

Eventually four rolls around, and they're ushered into the dressing room. Lou gives Harry a shirt and frowns when it doesn't quite fit.

"I could've sworn it fit perfectly yesterday," she says, screwing her face up. Harry isn't worried, though. They're One Direction, they always have a plan B. International superstardom takes a certain level of planning.

At seven thirty they're all huddled backstage, faces shiny with make-up and sweat. They're scared. Harry is scared. He tries to put things into perspective, tell himself that he fought a Dalek with nothing but a medieval spear, alongside a madman with a box and a sonic screwdriver, but it doesn't quite do the trick. This is him, getting ready to sing in front of thousands of people, and at some point he's going to have to step forward and sing a solo. You can't imagine it. You can't make it up.

"I love you," he tells the boys, hugging them closer. He probably messes up his gloss, but whatever.

They laugh, and it's a little breathless and a lot perfect. There's a mess of "Us too" and "Love you too, Styles," and then it's time to go.

Harry takes a deep breath.

*

The music sounds a bit juvenile after everything Harry's lived the past few months, but he sings with all he has, his lungs and his aching hollow heart. He remembers Nick thumbing the commands and whispering "sexy" into the shiny tubes of the TARDIS. He remembers the crushing hugs every time they survived a planet blowing up. He remembers the grief for the dead. He remembers growing up.

He does the Inbetweeners dance with the boys, makes all the right jokes during the Twitter segment, and all in all doesn't slip up once. It's probably thanks to the boys, though – they feel like a safety net, ready to jump in and save the day if anyone makes the slightest mistake. Harry kinds of wants to tell them about Nick. It feels wrong, keeping it a secret.

So he just makes his way across the stage – it would probably be a problem if they had any kind of choreography, but they gave up on that long ago, since the label realised that everyone was okay with them just jumping vaguely across the stage – and sidles up to Louis.

"I met someone," he whispers in his ear.

Louis chokes on his chorus. He arches an eyebrow at Harry. Harry just smiles; Louis swats his bum in passing as he crosses the stage in the opposite direction, probably to tell the others.

Harry stocks up all the megawatt smiles, the teasing whispers and the rude hand gestures until the first notes of _What Makes You Beautiful_ ring in the expectant silence. He tries to focus as much as he can during the first part of the song, and then it's him, he has to raise his head and smile and -

He sings.

He closes his eyes for a second, just to conjure Nick's face back. _Give me courage_ , he thinks, because that's what the Doctor has always been about, hasn't it? Harry heard the stories from Amy and Rory: Rose Tyler who fought until she got what she deserved, Martha Jones who spread the word to save the Earth, Donna Noble, dragged out of her average life, Amy Pond, the girl who waited. That's what the Doctor means to all those people, and that's what he means to Harry, too. Courage.

He opens his eyes, looks into the crowd.

It almost doesn't surprise him.

The Doctor, _his_ Doctor, Nick, standing there in his plaid suit, his stupid quiff and his hipster glasses. He arches an eyebrow.

"Take it away, Harry Styles," he mouths.


End file.
